


Deadspace

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [35]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Am I dead?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadspace

**Author's Note:**

> There were a lot of ways I could have summarized this chapter...but really, there is too much.
> 
> Also: still catching up, still trying not to be unhinged crazy person. Donations of this tea to facilitate both things: (https://www.adagio.com/signature_blend/blend.html?blend=51944) will not be turned down.
> 
> See Notes at the end for a warning that didn't quite fit the archive warnings above.

He awoke with his head resting on something soft. Opening his eyes, he found a pillow beneath his cheek. For some reason, it was an unexpected sight.

He sat up and realized he was lying on an unfamiliar bed. A sheet was rucked up on the far side of the mattress, as if he’d done his level best to get rid of it during slumber. The bed smelled of ozone—no, _he_ smelled of ozone. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and leggings, and both were saturated with the scent of electrical discharge, accompanied by a smell that reminded him of burning tar. He touched a black patch and realized that the fabric itself was charred, as if he’d been pulled from a fire.

The room was strange, too. It was a large open space, with tall windows set high up in walls built from white stone. No glass blocked out the breeze, and warm air stirred the long curtain of deep blue that was the room’s only decoration.

The floor was more of the white stone, polished smooth. It was warm under his feet, and encouraged him to stand when he wished to curl back up in the bed. He felt…he felt _burnt._

His belt was draped over a table at the foot of the bed; his boots were underneath the table. Both were clean, and didn’t seem to have any lingering odor. There was nothing else, not even a lightsaber. Or two.

Were there two? He couldn’t remember.

Two doorways led out. He guessed the ’fresher on the first try. The bedroom’s antique nature had seemed purposeful; this vast room, almost as large as the bedroom, proved the construction to be ancient in truth. The lights were glass globes with strange, tiny bulbs, but they weren’t on, and he couldn’t find any switches or controls. Another high-set window let in enough sunlight that the lack of power didn’t matter, at least for the moment.

He turned on an ornate copper sink tap to find that the plumbing still functioned. After several sputtering coughs, it produced a smooth flow of clear, lukewarm water. He’d felt no need to urinate, but sudden, _vast_ thirst presented itself the moment the water appeared. He ducked his head and drank directly from the tap.

He lifted his head, breathing shallowly. It was not much of a surprise when he bent over and threw up the water he’d just drunk into the sink basin. He rinsed it down, feeling the spike of a forming headache. His stomach needed time to remember that water was acceptable.

The mirror above the sink was gray and dull, perhaps destroyed by time. He pressed his hand to the glass and left a handprint behind in a film of dust—not ruined, after all. He wiped the dust away in a circle, revealing enough of the mirror’s surface to catch a glimpse of his face.

His first thought was that his hair was too long. He touched the ends, almost level with his chin in the front, hanging longer in the back. His features were too damned narrow, possibly from illness. That would certainly explain his unsteady hands, and knees that kept threatening collapse.

There were green lines tracing his skin. They were faint on his face, but as he pulled down the high collar of his shirt with his fingers, there were darker ones to be found. Strange, how he had expected them to be there. He thought that perhaps there was a pattern in the lay of the lines, but if so, he didn’t recognize it.

He peered closer at the mirror, wiping off yet more of the dusty film. His eyes—

He turned away from the mirror and found the shower, which was less a stall and more a wide space with enough room for at least four people to bathe at once. It was made of the same white stone, marked only by an archaic-looking shower head and a drain in the floor that were both made from the same burnished copper as the sink tap.

The pipes in the shower repeated the sink’s weak cough before producing a steady fall of water. He stripped off his foul-smelling clothing and stood underneath, letting tepid water fall onto his head and shoulders in a cleansing rain.

The overwhelming smell of electrical discharge began to fade. It was a lot easier to breathe with it gone.

He held up his hands, peered at his arms. Darker repetitions of those green lines lingered at the insides of his wrists, tracing up the paler underside of his right arm. The darker lines even marred the tattoo on his left arm, a fanciful work of green and blue shimmering ink that covered him from wrist to elbow. He frowned; the green and blue was not abstract, but script that had been gracefully intertwined to appear almost as imagery. The words looked familiar, but they didn’t mean anything. The only impression he got from the text was that it was meant to be…private.

The lines were darkest on his body, the color still lingering closer to black. The patterns were concentrated at his heart, and around the strange scar on the right side of his lower abdomen, the one that looked like half of a star.

His hands were shaking. He dropped them and let the lukewarm water soak his skin until he felt too chilled to remain. Only at the end did he lift his face, swallowing careful mouthfuls of the water from the showerhead. The water in the sink had tasted fine; this had a faint, mineral aftertaste. At least this time he didn’t immediately sick it up.

When he turned off the tap, there was a towel waiting for him where none had been before. He stared at it in bafflement while water dripped from his hair. There was no wall, glass, or curtain dividing the shower from the rest of the ’fresher. If someone had entered the room, they’d been damned stealthy about it.

His clothes were replaced as well, a neatly folded stack with shirt and leggings on top, and underwear hidden beneath. At least, he thought that these were replacements. He touched the brown fabric of his shirt, uncertain. It was clean and undamaged, but it was also an exact match for what he had taken off. He dressed and wondered that both shirt and leggings felt softer, somehow…or perhaps he’d washed away some irritant on his skin beyond the pollution of (Force Lightning) electricity.

His sleeves were long enough that he could pull them down to his fingertips, if he wished. Covering the tattoo, keeping it from anyone’s sight but his own, filled him with a vast sense of relief that made no sense at all.

The mirror had fogged up, despite the lack of hot water. He used the towel to wipe the entirety of it clean, and couldn’t avoid seeing the whole of his own face.

His eyes were such a pale blue that they almost appeared silver. “Well.”

He dropped the towel, startled by the hoarse sound of his own voice. He cleared his throat and said, “That’s different,” and sounded better, if not right.

Curiosity prodded him into finding out more about his surroundings. The second bedroom door let him out into a long hallway. Two more large bedrooms, much like the first, lay behind open doorways. The only decoration in each room was a long wall-hanging, grey and dull red, respectively.

The hall opened up on a room easily three times the size of the first bedroom. The stone walls were half-gone on one side, but there was no sign of rubble. Jagged edges of broken stone had worn smooth, so the damage must have occurred long ago. The weather seemed pleasant, and the sun was warm, so perhaps the building’s owners didn’t feel the need for repairs.

It was also possible that those who had built this place were long gone. He was struck again by the feel of immense age, as if he stood in a place that had weathered eons and still remained almost unchanged.

He had no idea where he was, no sense of place, no recollection of his arrival. He possibly should have felt concerned by this, but he didn’t feel endangered.

The crumbled wall had taken out the original kitchen when it fell, and not much had been done to replace it. There was an unfamiliar cooking range; a small flame emerged from a flat, glossy surface, burning beneath a silver kettle.

A flat, table-sized control panel, dust-covered and silent, was the sole provision of a sunken area to his left, opposite the kitchen. He walked down the three steps and circled the panel, but it didn’t react to his presence.

 _Do not touch,_ he thought, but had no idea why he shouldn’t.

There were double doors, standing open, at the opposite end of the control room. He climbed up the steps and went outside.

He was in a courtyard built of old, worn stone—shades of gray and dull red, not white. Stone benches, edges rounded by time, flanked each end of the courtyard. A stairwell made of the same rock led down to a still, green-mirrored body of water.

It was the presence of the two men sitting at the top of the stairs, turned to face him, that captured most of his attention. They were as familiar to him as his own skin…and yet, he didn’t recognize them at all.

 

*          *          *          *

 

They gave him tea, the contents of the silver kettle he’d noticed sitting in the kitchen. He sat down at the table in a room he hadn’t seen, hidden by the kitchen ruins, and wrapped his hands around the white mug. The heat warmed his fingers and soothed the tremor from his hands.

“It’s dissociative amnesia,” Ulic explained, once the brown-haired man had introduced—no; re-introduced—himself and his companion.

“I know the term,” he said, frowning. That explained why he didn’t seem to have much of a concept of self, or any memory of this place.

“Do you at least know your name?” Ulic asked. There was a faint smile on his face, but it wasn’t mocking.

He sighed. “No,” he said, but he had impressions of having more than one. Given name, family name? Nickname? He couldn’t recall any of it.

“Your name is Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said, which called his attention over to the other man. He was the taller of the pair, but it was the man’s silvering hair that kept drawing his gaze, and he had no idea why.

He— _Obi-Wan,_ he thought, _Try to learn your own damned name_ —took a sip of the tea, grimacing at the flavor. “What is this?”

“Old blend,” Ulic said. “It grows on you.”

Obi-Wan peered down into the mug. The liquid was stark black with hints of oily red. “Not literally, I hope.”

“Well, there is nothing wrong with your sense of humor,” Qui-Gon said in a dry voice, which Obi-Wan found reassuring.

“Dissociation varies like that.” Ulic shrugged one shoulder. “Mine was terrible.”

“You’ve…this has happened to you before?” Obi-Wan asked, hesitantly grabbing hold of this line, this potentially stable explanation for why he felt like he was drifting in mist.

Ulic nodded. “Long time ago. You know what triggers dissociative amnesia, yes?”

Obi-Wan thought about the green lines on his skin, and the look of long illness showcased by his thinned features and too-thin limbs. “Traumatic stimuli.”

“It’ll go away on its own, if the pattern holds true,” Ulic said.

Obi-Wan managed another sip of the tea. It was _bitter_ , but underneath he was starting to detect a hint of savory-sweet. “Pattern?”

“Well.” Ulic sat down his mug and folded his hands together. Obi-Wan had the distinct impression that he didn’t like telling this tale. “After my, er, traumatic stimuli, the dissociation didn’t happen right away. My brain waited until the dust settled and Kun was dead, and then it was like a light snapping off. I couldn’t remember a fucking thing about who I was, what I’d done, the people I was surrounded by, my brother…”

Ulic lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead. “Bless the Jedi of my time, they hid me away from public view until I figured out who the fuck I was again. Took a couple of weeks. Not that it did me much good. Nobody really knew how to fix the sort of broken, fucked up condition that I’d gotten myself into, and I wasn’t all that inclined to let anyone help, anyway.”

“Ah.” Obi-Wan didn’t really want to ask, but more information was better than less. “Am I going to be dealing with the same span of dissociation? The same sort of…er…state?”

Ulic’s eyes widened. “Well, you didn’t wage war against the entire Republic, so no, you should have a much easier recovery period.”

Obi-Wan grimaced. “No one is going to laugh if I say that I’m not sure what a Republic is right now, are they?”

Qui-Gon smiled. “It’s a little bit amusing.”

“It’s humiliating,” Obi-Wan muttered.

“Oh, don’t get stuck in _that_ mindset,” Ulic warned him. “That’ll do you no good at all. I’m guessing you have anywhere from three days to three weeks of dissociation ahead of you. We’ll see what kind of mess your head is in _after_ you can actually remember the name of your own government.”

“There is…one thing I’d like to know, right now,” Obi-Wan said, and steeled himself. “Am I dead?”

“No!” Qui-Gon looked shocked.

Ulic just raised an eyebrow. “Why would you think so?”

“Because you are—both of you are dead,” Obi-Wan said. “You could perhaps understand my concern.”

Qui-Gon inclined his head with a rueful smile. “Well, you are correct that _we_ are.”

“You, however, are quite alive, and you’re going to stay that way,” Ulic told him in a stern voice. “Seriously, I have never met anyone who has come so close to dying so many damn times, and you’re not even actively suicidal.”

Qui-Gon was giving him a curious look. There was a sense of being evaluated in his gaze; Obi-Wan found it familiar, but not necessarily soothing. “How did you know?”

Obi-Wan glanced back and forth at Ulic and Qui-Gon. They both appeared normal: the men looked physically solid, were drinking that odd damned tea, they were breathing—and yet there was some instinct at play in the back of his mind, telling him that it was both truth, yet not all of the truth.

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said at last. “I just…I could tell.”

He hated that he didn’t have a real answer for Qui-Gon, but he was still so blasted _confused._ His head hurt, and that burnt feeling had not faded at all. He _knew_ these people, but couldn’t recall a fucking thing about them. He knew his own body enough to recognize that there was something not right about his eyes, but couldn’t even name his own birthday.

Obi-Wan lowered his head and looked down at his hands. The patterns of green were faintest on the backs of his hands, more like the hints of veins under his skin, but all he had to do was pull back his sleeve from his wrist to see darker, disturbing hints. He still didn’t understand the pattern he saw, but that darker green, that almost-black—that reminded him of decomposition.

He pulled his sleeve back down to cover the sharp jut of bone at his wrist. _Traumatic stimuli_ , he thought. “Did I hurt anyone?”

“I think that depends on your point of view, honestly,” Ulic said.

Obi-Wan glanced up at him. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Qui-Gon sighed and shook his head. “Ulic. Your age is showing,” he said, and then turned to Obi-Wan. “You harmed no innocents. I swear it.”

 _But how do you define innocent?_ Obi-Wan wondered, and then decided to let the matter drop. He felt overloaded as it was.

“You’re stuck here with us for the time being, so there’s a few things you should know,” Ulic said, and Obi-Wan gave him his rapt attention. His ability to _retain_ new information was still functional, at least. “We’re on an island, so there’s no mainland to go wandering off towards. You’re free to go wherever you want, indoors and out. I think there’s a library on the second floor, so reading could be an option.”

“If the birds haven’t gotten in and made off with all of the books for nesting material,” Qui-Gon put in.

“Well, yes, that. My point is, you are to rest, to recover, and to not do a damned thing. That should be easy enough, right?” Ulic asked.

Obi-Wan made a face. “It sounds…boring, actually.”

Ulic rolled his eyes. “Jedi,” he said, making the word sound like a curse. Obi-Wan wondered what a Jedi was—it sounded familiar. Could definitely be related to himself, the way Ulic had responded.

“You may also speak to either of us,” Qui-Gon added, when Ulic seemed too annoyed to go on. “There are some questions we won’t answer until the dissociation fades, but conversations are not unwelcome.”

“The towels,” Obi-Wan blurted, and then winced. “I mean—there was nothing in there, and then…”

Ulic nodded. “This is Mortis, which is a nexus, or a wellspring, depending on how you prefer to think of it. We are sitting in the heart of that nexus. The water that surrounds us is the strongest point of the wellspring. Things…sort of…happen, when you’re that close to the essence of probability.”

Obi-Wan gave him a blank stare. “What?”

Qui-Gon gave Ulic a look of fond exasperation. “In simpler terms: you needed a towel after bathing, so the wellspring supplied it. You needed clothes to wear that were familiar, and the wellspring either replaced or repaired what you had discarded.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “So, if I wanted something—”

“Ah, no, that’s the trick,” Ulic interrupted him, wagging one finger in Obi-Wan’s direction. “This is about need, not want. Necessity, not excess.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan honestly didn’t think he could have been more baffled, but this wellspring nonsense had managed it. “Does it at least feed us? Or is that considered to be an excess?”

Ulic seemed startled by the question. “Well, it used to, or else the old guardians would have gone hungry in short order. This place doesn’t grow much for crops, and transported goods would have made Mortis too well-known to the galaxy at large.   I might need to prod it and give it a few reminders, but that shouldn’t be an issue.” Ulic peered at him. “Why, are you hungry now?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, feeling his stomach sour at the thought. “Real food can wait for a few hours.”

He waited a few more minutes, finishing his tea in silence. No more questions occurred to him, and his companions didn’t seem to have anything else to say, either. He was, quite honestly, getting the impression that Ulic and Qui-Gon were as wary of him as he was of _them._

When Obi-Wan rose from the table and went back into the kitchen, neither man said a word to stay him, which eased some of his tension. The kitchen wasn’t as destroyed as his first glance made it seem. Obi-Wan rinsed the mug in a copper sink reminiscent of the ’fresher, and then sat it on the countertop while staring over the broken edge of the wall. The breeze was still warm, but he could smell salt in the air. He heard the crash of waves against rock from not too far away.

The idea of a library intrigued him enough that he hunted down the stairs. They were in the first room off the hall, tucked neatly behind a curve of stone wall. Obi-Wan climbed up, grimacing at the burn from protesting muscles. He was either desperately out of shape, or still more tired than he realized.

Despite Qui-Gon’s concern, the books looked to be in good condition. Obi-Wan ran his hand along bound cloth spines that lined the entire wall opposite the window, and thought he understood why the books had remained unmolested by wildlife. There was an almost electrical feel in front of the shelves, something that made him itch with the desire to turn away. Whoever had owned this home, the books had been left protected.

As he pulled down a book at random, Obi-Wan realized why the room seemed so strange. There were no data readers anywhere to be found. None. The library he stood in would make—would make some person whose name he _could not recall_ —very happy. The books were nearly as untouched by time as the rest of the building.

Obi-Wan opened the book to a random page. The text was utterly unfamiliar, and he didn’t know if it was because of the damned dissociation, or if the language was so old as to be long forgotten.

The next book proved likewise, as did the three after that. It was only on the furthest shelf from the door that the text started to catch his eye, shapes and curves beginning to look familiar. It was a language he knew, or thought he knew.

Obi-Wan replaced the book on the shelf. Against the next wall was a table with a series of drawers; there were reams of paper inside most of them, the edges just touched with the yellow of age. There were also varying types of styluses, enough to make him wonder if any still functioned.

The only other thing on the second floor was another stairwell opposite the library, stone steps that went upwards in a tight spiral. Obi-Wan shoved open the hatch in the ceiling at the top and stepped out onto the roof. Wind strong with the tang of salt hit him in the face, ruffling his hair. His skin felt too hot, something he only noticed now that cooler air was touching him.

The island was small enough that Obi-Wan could turn in a circle and see all of it. The house was perched on the edge of land closest to the evening sun. A grassy plain behind the house looked intriguing, and he could see the hint of an old path following along the coastal cliffs. The waves were crashing against rock on all fronts except for the stone courtyard, where the ocean was serene for no discernable reason at all.

 _Mortis,_ Obi-Wan thought, but had no idea if Mortis was the name of the house, the island he stood upon, the ocean, or the entirety of the planet.

He could smell food when he returned to the main floor. He found Ulic and Qui-Gon in the doorway to that off-set dining room. They were both staring at the table as if it was laden with poison.

“It’s a self-loading table,” Ulic said. “That is so entirely fucked up.”

“I am not disagreeing with you,” Qui-Gon replied.

Obi-Wan peered between them to see three steaming bowls on the table, and three glasses of a clear liquid he honestly hoped was just water. “I’m more bothered by the fact that your wellspring feels the need to feed the pair of you, as well.”

“Well, it’s not that we don’t eat,” Ulic said, though his expression was still baffled. “It’s just…usually not something done _here_.”

Obi-Wan knew he was missing something. “What, not at a table?”

Ulic grimaced. “Help,” he said to Qui-Gon. “I have no idea how to explain this to someone who is missing half of the concepts.”

Qui-Gon thought about it for a moment. “You recall how vast the spectrum of light is, and that humans can only see a tiny fraction of it, yes?” Obi-Wan nodded. “Our existence is sort of like that spectrum.”

“Different depending on where in the spectrum you’re looking?” Obi-Wan guessed.

“Or existing,” Ulic said. “We’re not ghosts _everywhere_ in the spectrum, Kid.”

“That makes sense.” Obi-Wan reached out and poked Ulic in the arm with one finger. “Else I would not be able to do that.”

Ulic rolled his eyes and went to sit down. “That wasn’t a bad explanation at a moment’s notice,” he said, leaning over to sniff the bowl. “Vegetarian. Dammit.”

“It was not originally mine,” Qui-Gon said, and glanced at Obi-Wan.

 _What you see of me now is not_ all _there is of me,_ Obi-Wan thought, and felt gooseflesh break out on his arms.

The soup was tolerable, though he had to stop three-quarters of the way through the portion and wait, wondering if he was about to be ill. The feeling was so fierce that he pressed his fingers to his lips in reminder to his body that throwing up was not welcome.

“Ulic mentioned that you aren’t used to food that didn’t come from a wrapper,” Qui-Gon said. Obi-Wan didn’t think he was imagining the hint of reproof in the other man’s voice.

“Apparently not,” Obi-Wan agreed, when he could speak and not paint the table. He glanced over at Ulic and found him slumped over the tabletop next to his empty bowl, head pillowed on his arms, deeply asleep.

Qui-Gon followed Obi-Wan’s gaze, his features softening. “Ulic expended a great deal of energy in order to help you. He needs the chance to recover almost as much as you do.”

“Have you…” Obi-Wan hesitated. Qui-Gon had said that conversation was welcome, but his questions felt trivial. “Have you known each other long?”

“Yes, and no,” Qui-Gon answered, stretching his arms up over his head. Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon’s hands, his eyes following the long line of Qui-Gon’s limbs, and thought that this man could easily break him in half. “For me, it feels like a long time, but Ulic is much, much older than I am.”

Obi-Wan nodded. He had noticed that Qui-Gon’s and Ulic’s modes of dress seemed very different, but hadn’t wanted to mention it in case it was ill-mannered. “Then…what are you, to me? Minders? Jailers?”

Qui-Gon seemed amused. “Friends would be more accurate, though I suppose that minders also applies, given the situation.” He treated Obi-Wan to another one of those appraising stares. “I used to be your teacher.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head. “Used to be?”

Qui-Gon smiled. “Well. I died.”

“Ah.” Obi-Wan felt like he’d blundered, for some reason. “That must have been inconvenient.”

“Hmm. Yes, I suppose that is one way of looking at it.”

If Obi-Wan had to put a name to the emotion clawing its way up from his gut, he would have called it pain. “I’m sorry.”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “Don’t be. My fate was of my own making, and most assuredly my own fault.”

Obi-Wan flashed on a haze of red. It was a swift recollection, gone almost before he realized it, but he didn’t like the feelings associated with it at all.

“Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan glanced up, realizing in the same moment that he’d clenched both hands into fists. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Recollection without context,” he clarified, when Qui-Gon offered him a politely disbelieving look. “Therefore, at the moment, it means nothing.”

“I doubt that,” Qui-Gon said, but didn’t push further.

“Speaking of not recalling,” Obi-Wan began. “What happens when this dissociation wears off? What next?”

“That depends on you, and what stage your physical recovery is at,” Qui-Gon said, after finishing off the water in his glass.

“Physical?” Obi-Wan repeated. “I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” Qui-Gon interrupted, “and I can prove it. Hold out your arm.”

Obi-Wan almost drew back. “Why?”

Qui-Gon chuckled. “I promise, I won’t lay a hand on you. Raise your arm straight out at your side and hold it there for a full minute.”

Obi-Wan gave him a suspicious look, but did so, counting the seconds in his head. By fifteen seconds, his muscles were burning; by forty-five seconds, his arm was visibly trembling. He gave in at fifty-five seconds. Not even sheer stubbornness could get him to the full minute mark.

“Let me guess,” he said, rubbing his forearm. “I should have been able to hold that pose for several minutes?”

“Try several hours,” Qui-Gon corrected him.

Obi-Wan stared at him. “Fuck, why would I be insane enough to want to do that?”

Qui-Gon started laughing. “I am going to remind you of that question when the dissociation wears off, Padawan.”

The term raised the hackles on his neck as much as it warmed him. It was familiar, yes, but it was the sheer _affection_ in the word that really caught Obi-Wan’s attention. He opened his mouth to ask about it, and then decided, at the last moment, not to do so. If there were any negative connotations associated with “Padawan,” he didn’t want to know until he didn’t have a choice.

“What do we do with the dishes?” he asked instead. “Leave them be? Clean them up? Toss them in the ocean?”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

In the end, they decided by mutual action to gather the bowls and glassware up, putting everything in the kitchen sink in lieu of any soap to clean them with. The lights in their strange glass fixtures came to life as the evening progressed, bathing the house with a soft, cool glow.

“What about him?” Obi-Wan asked, meaning Ulic.

Qui-Gon frowned, bent over Ulic, and said, “Go to bed.”

Ulic uttered a muffled grunt and vanished.

Obi-Wan blinked in surprise. “Where did—”

“The first bedroom,” Qui-Gon answered him. “Or did you mean, ‘How?’”

“That, too.”

“Aside from being deceased…it’s a wellspring, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon explained. “He just needed to think about it.”

“Oh, that would be so useful,” Obi-Wan murmured. With food in his system, exhaustion had reared its head, and the walk down the hall seemed daunting.

“You should try it, when you are physically recovered,” Qui-Gon suggested. Obi-Wan found himself intrigued by the playful smile on his face.

Obi-Wan considered it. “Er…no. No, I think I’ll wait until the dissociation wears off, as well. With my luck, I’d get it wrong and embed myself in a wall.”

“Suit yourself,” Qui-Gon said, turning to put the silver kettle back on the strange cooktop. The flame appeared without any action needed on Qui-Gon’s part.

Obi-Wan hesitated. “I—Qui-Gon?”

Qui-Gon glanced back at him, a questioning look on his face. “Yes?”

He dithered over the words; he wanted to say them, but didn’t understand the impetus behind them. “I just…” _Fuck, just stop stalling and say it._ “I’m glad you’re here.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened; by the smile on his face, the wonder in his eyes, it appeared as if he had just received a great gift. “So am I, Obi-Wan.”

That was too much emotional input for someone who could barely even recall their own name. Obi-Wan retreated without another word. He felt unnerved, elated, and utterly baffled.

The first bedroom door was sealed shut when Obi-Wan passed by. The second was still open; Obi-Wan guessed that was the room that Qui-Gon had claimed. The gray banner didn’t suit him at all, but Obi-Wan was starting to get the impression that the banners had come with the house, not from the wellspring.

The bedroom lights flickered on when he entered the room. The sheets on the bed were smooth, unrumpled, and clean-scented. He stared at the bed, his emotions careening straight back around to unnerved. He wasn’t certain he liked the idea of living in a house that altered reality to suit his needs. It made him wonder if it was why the previous tenants had departed.

The lights went off after he was settled in place, as if he’d requested that very thing. Obi-Wan thought he would have trouble sleeping and instead slept straight through until midmorning the next day. He wasn’t sure if the hours abed made him feel better, or worse.

The shower removed most of the sleep-fog, though the water was still tepid. He glowered at the lever that turned the water on. There was no temperature indication of any sort. “The bed makes itself, but you can’t supply hot water? Come on, now. Hot! At least try to be warmer than this!”

The water ignored him and stayed the same temperature. He had no idea why the hell Mortis thought he _needed_ cool water.

Digging around in the drawers beneath the sink provided a means to clean his teeth, clip his nails, soap—finally—but nothing with which to shave. Obi-Wan scratched at the bristle on his face, already looking to be several days old. A lack of razor was annoying. He had no desire at the moment to be bearded, but it seemed there was little choice unless Ulic or Qui-Gon could provide an alternative.

The ritual of clean clothing and towel repeated itself, as did the food. That morning it was bread and a fragrant green tea. The dishes from last night had been found clean that morning, and were stacked on the surviving stretch of countertop next to the sink. If there had been storage, it must have been built into the missing wall.

“Where is it _coming_ from?” Obi-Wan asked, when his own internal musings provided no answers. Ulic was right; it was hard to explain things if you were missing half the concepts.

“Let’s go back to physics,” Ulic said. He had another cupful of yesterday’s black and red-tinted tea.

“Biology,” Qui-Gon corrected absently. He was looking at one of the cloth-bound books from the library, running his fingers down the line of text as if searching for something. Obi-Wan caught himself staring at the man’s hair again and deliberately turned his gaze away.

“Same difference,” Ulic returned, shrugging. “At least it is in this case. You eat food; food is turned into fuel by your body, which provides the energy you need to function.”

“Typically,” Obi-Wan said.

Ulic smiled. “When you get right down to it, everything is made up of energy—you, the food, the object the food is served in, the chair your ass is parked on. It’s just in different forms. Therefore, why the fuck does the representation of form matter? It is _still_ energy. It’s not that much of a stretch to go from pure energy to physical, edible substance.”

Obi-Wan thought about it. “Which is what makes this particular place equally accessible to all three of us. That energy is being translated appropriately, so that we seem to be more or less in that same part of the spectrum.”

“Exactly that.” Ulic grinned.

“I told you he was smart,” Qui-Gon said, without looking up.

“Yes, and I believed you the first eight thousand times.”

Obi-Wan bowed out, both out of embarrassment and a sense that he was about to witness an old discussion repeat itself. There was an entire—albeit small—island to explore. That would give him something to do other than to ponder his lack of recollection, or the philosophy behind Mortis’s magically appearing meals.

The foot trail had been trodden often in the past, which left it starkly visible on the rock and easy to follow. It was colder along the cliff edges, but his shirt, leggings, and boots seemed adequate enough.

It occurred to him halfway around the island that he had utterly disregarded Ulic’s admonishment not to do anything. Obi-Wan sat down where the edge of soil gave way to bare rock, and then lay back in the grass. His lungs were burning with each breath, and his muscles were trying to cramp. Whatever he was recovering from must have been fucking awful.

Qui-Gon appeared next to him with a suddenness that made him jerk away and want to bolt directly towards the ocean. “Sorry,” the man apologized, upon seeing Obi-Wan’s expression. “It occurs to me that you aren’t used to that.”

“It’s all right.” Obi-Wan sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. “Also, I have already realized that hiking is doing something, and thus is not nothing.”

“I gathered that.” Qui-Gon sat down next to him, a solid, reassuring presence despite his method of arrival. “Are you all right?”

Obi-Wan considered it. “Bloody fucking buggering hell in a burning damned basket.” There; at least dissociation didn’t seem to limit his vocabulary.

He was surprised when Qui-Gon laughed. “I always did admire your way with words.”

“You have weird standards,” Obi-Wan said, smiling.

“So I’ve been told. Would you like some help getting back? Or would you prefer to remain beached until after nightfall?”

Somehow, Obi-Wan understood what kind of assistance Qui-Gon was offering. “I don’t think it would take that long to get back, but…why?”

“Why would I offer?” Qui-Gon sounded confused by the question.

Obi-Wan nodded. “It feels out of place.”

“Because I can,” Qui-Gon answered. Obi-Wan removed his hands from his eyes and looked up at him. Qui-Gon had a sad smile on his face. “There were many times in the past when it would have been…” He hesitated. “There were many times when that ability would have been of great assistance, but outside of Mortis, the living cannot be moved about that way.”

“Why?” At least this discussion felt more like actual physics instead of philosophy.

The sadness faded a bit, but did not disappear entirely. “When you lack mass, it takes almost no energy whatsoever to go from one place to another—to teleport,” Qui-Gon explained. “Moving solid objects, living objects, takes a great deal of energy.”

Obi-Wan felt the realization click into place. “Energy that the living do not normally have access to.”

“Not without some rather extreme circumstances, no,” Qui-Gon said. “Besides,” he added, with a glance up at the sky. “The weather’s turning. It will be raining before you have time to walk back.”

Obi-Wan frowned; the afternoon sky was clear, the sun bright. “How do you know?”

Qui-Gon gaze went distant. “I always know.”

Obi-Wan sat up and held out his hand in obvious permission. The feel of their palms sliding together was intensely familiar, but Obi-Wan forgot all about it when his senses abruptly registered the change in scenery.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, the words rushing out on a sudden exhale.  They were sitting on the stone courtyard in front of the house, and he hadn’t felt a damn thing. “That’s amazing.”

True to Qui-Gon’s word, the weather turned dark and violent a short time later, bringing sheets of rain and making a pond out of the kitchen floor. “Nice,” Ulic said, sloshing through the water in his bare feet. “Our very own indoor pool. Seriously, why are you in such a foul mood?”

Obi-Wan thought the question was directed at him until he noticed Qui-Gon glowering at Ulic. “I’m not.”

“Liar,” Ulic replied, disappearing into the dining room. “Great, there’s meat! I was starting to wonder if Mortis was trying to turn me into a vegetarian.”

Obi-Wan had no idea what the two were referring to, and neither were inclined to explain. The weather had cleared by the next morning, though Ulic grumbled about having to deal with the puddle.

He didn’t want to attempt skirting the island again, not when he was still sleeping so heavily that the night cycle disappeared in a blip of time. Instead, he went back to the library.

Qui-Gon found him lying on his belly on the roof of the house, one of the almost-understandable books open on the stone in front of him. He’d scavenged paper and a stylus from the drawers, and several rocks were holding down the fluttering sheets. The stylus worked after Obi-Wan took it apart and put it back together, the ink flowing as if it was brand new.

“Ulic tells you to do nothing, so you sit down and start teaching yourself old High Aurebesh,” Qui-Gon said, amused.

“Is that what this is?” Obi-Wan asked, painstakingly making sure he was matching the glyphs as he wrote them down. He could recognize three words in ten, though the spelling seemed wrong. If he could map the alphabet, it would be a start in the correct direction. “Do you read it?”

“No.” Qui-Gon looked intrigued. “I always wanted to learn. Would you like some help?”

“Given that I know certain words but lack the concepts?” Obi-Wan smiled. “Help would be nice.” He and Qui-Gon spent most of the day bent over the book, trying to puzzle their way through the glyph set.

 

*          *          *          *

 

By the seventh day, life on Mortis felt almost normal. Obi-Wan was rising earlier, and could loop the entire island without needing to collapse midway around. He had started dreaming again, too, hints and fragments that only made sense while he was still asleep.

“Why do you keep staring at my hair?” Qui-Gon asked him, after they had pulled a third book printed in High Aurebesh for their continued translation efforts. The process was driving Obi-Wan to distraction; he _knew_ it should have been easier than this. He was _better_ at language than this.

Obi-Wan followed Qui-Gon up the stairs to the roof. It was a pleasant place to work, whereas the electrical field that protected the books in the library drove them both from the room in short order.

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said, smiling. He’d not wasted the opportunity the stairs had presented to ogle the other man’s backside. The passing days hadn’t done a damn thing for his memory, but he’d managed to develop one hell of a crush. “Perhaps I just like to look at it.”

Qui-Gon glanced back over his shoulder, his expression one that Obi-Wan thought might have been teasing. “Perhaps, but I don’t think that’s the entire answer.”

“Well, I still don’t know,” Obi-Wan replied. “We’ll both have to wait and find out.” He was getting frustrated with the wait, too. Ulic didn’t seem concerned with the extended period of dissociation, but Obi-Wan wanted it gone. He wanted to remember who he was, what had happened—what had caused those damned green lines on his skin, even though they were fading more with every day that passed.

Obi-Wan halted a few steps beyond the rooftop hatch. “Huh.”

“What is it?” Qui-Gon paused in the midst of unfolding a thick sheaf of paper that comprised their notes.

Obi-Wan turned in place, studying the line of the house. “It’s been bothering me. Why build a house with a second floor that only has one room?”

Qui-Gon shrugged. “Aesthetics?”

“Maybe.” Obi-Wan went back to the hatch, lined himself up with the doorway, and walked forward, one foot directly in front of the other. _Twenty steps,_ he thought, and went back down the stairs with Qui-Gon following close behind.

He lined himself up with his mental placement of the roof hatch, and walked in the same direction, counting his steps. _Fifteen._ “The walls aren’t that thick.”

“Not aesthetics at all, then?” Qui-Gon sounded uneasy, which should have been his first clue as to what they would find.

“Wait.” Obi-Wan placed his hands on the stone wall. It felt cool and unyielding beneath his hands, but at the same time, his palms tingled. He knew that sensation; it was familiar, like the brush of Qui-Gon’s hands against his as they competed for writing space on the same sheet of paper. He allowed his eyes to close and instinct to take over, pulling at the layer he could sense—the layer that didn’t belong.

The feel of stone beneath his hands vanished. He opened his eyes to find another hall, similar in length to the one downstairs.

“Obi-Wan!”

Obi-Wan turned around, surprised by the concern in Qui-Gon’s voice. “What?” he asked, and then felt warmth soaking the bristle on his upper lip. His fingertips came away bright with blood. “Oh,” he whispered, his knees buckling as a wave of dizziness struck.

Qui-Gon caught him before he could hit the ground, supporting Obi-Wan until he was more or less able to stand on his own again. “And that would be why Ulic said not to _do_ anything,” Qui-Gon said, too much worry shining in his eyes for his words to sound chastising. “Here.”

Obi-Wan accepted the soft bundle of cloth and pressed it to his nose, grimacing at the feel of too much moisture being soaked up at once. _This is_ basic _self-care, and you are failing at it,_ he heard in his head, in someone else’s voice. It was enough of a reminder that he tilted his head forward, hoping to staunch the flow of blood.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded in response to the question. Qui-Gon was still standing close enough that Obi-Wan could feel warmth, like the heat of a living being. It was a disappointment when Qui-Gon walked back to the stairwell, calling for Ulic.

“That was dumb,” Ulic said, when he saw Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan waved him off, relieved to find that he’d stopped bleeding in the time it took for Ulic to climb the stairs. “Also, that brand-new hallway is not reassuring at all.”

Qui-Gon was nodding. “There are probably no good reasons why the guardians would have hidden an entire wing of the house, are there?”

There were three rooms off of the newly revealed hall, a floor plan that matched the bedroom layout downstairs, but the other two rooms remained unexplored after Obi-Wan found what lay waiting in the first.

“Fuck.” Obi-Wan put his hand on the doorframe, not quite willing to step inside the makeshift mausoleum. The two humanoid bodies on the floor looked as if they had died only recently. The man and woman both wore silken robes that had been capped with ornate armor, protecting the junction of joints and vital organs. There was no sign of decay at all—just a lack of color in the pale woman’s skin, and the grayed-out burnish to the dark-skinned man.

Ulic stepped past Obi-Wan, a grimace on his face as he skirted the corpses. They were resting on the floor in state, with no visible cause of death. Qui-Gon paused next to Obi-Wan, as if sharing in his desire not to enter the room.

“Who are they?” Obi-Wan asked, when he found his voice. He had no idea why the discovery was so disturbing, but he wanted nothing more than to get the hell away from the dead pair.

Ulic had gone further into the room to explore the contents of a tabletop at the opposite wall. “They’re Jedi,” he said in a quiet voice. He turned back to face them, a long, thin object held in his hands and a reverent expression on his face.

It took Obi-Wan a moment to recognize the sword for what it was. The sheath that protected the blade was plain, but its hilt was ornate, reminiscent of the dead Jedi’s armor.

“Ancient Jedi. Far, far older than I am.” Ulic tilted his head. “Huh. I haven’t felt that young in a long damn time.”

“How ancient?” Qui-Gon asked, voice laced with curiosity.

Ulic grasped the sheath and pulled the sword free with his left hand. Obi-Wan’s chief impression was durasteel blade with one hell of an edge, followed quickly by recognition of a low hum that seemed to sound in his head. There was a green corona around the sword, faint compared to the sunlight, but there was no denying that the blade was emitting its own glow.

“Everyone stopped bothering with Force-imbued blades a few hundred years after the Great Hyperspace War, when the technology evolved so that our modern lightsabers were freed from the limitations of battery packs. Only the ancient Masters still remembered how to forge them, and even they felt it wasn’t worth the effort to maintain the practice.”

“At least five thousand years old, then,” Qui-Gon surmised.

Ulic considered it. “No. More like fifteen-thousand, Qui-Gon.”

“How the _hell_ are they still—” Obi-Wan broke off, shaken by the idea of fifteen-thousand-year-old corpses.

“Preserved?” Ulic sheathed the sword. Obi-Wan found that to be a relief, since the thrumming in his head had started resounding in his bones, and it was not a comfortable sensation. “Same as the paper, the books, the styluses, the furniture—everything in this house, Obi-Wan. There is some sort of preservation field that comes into play when you’re this close to a wellspring.”

Ulic sighed. “We need to know what the fuck happened. You’re better at reading the threads than I am, Qui-Gon. Do you think you can trace this?”

Obi-Wan had no idea what that meant, but Qui-Gon did. He didn’t look happy about it, either. “I’d rather not, but more information is better than less.”

Qui-Gon going into the room to join Ulic broke Obi-Wan’s temporary paralysis. “Excuse me,” he murmured, and departed almost unnoticed. He went down the stairs and didn’t stop walking until he was on the edge of the shore, where preternaturally calm ocean met pale white sand.

Obi-Wan clenched his fists and drew in breath after breath of clean air. He still had no idea what was so disturbing about the tableau upstairs, but it felt like sour notes hanging in the air. There was an air of _waiting_ associated with the dead, one that was far too familiar.

He wasn’t sure what made him turn around. When he did so, he was confronted with the snarling, transparent visage of an old man rushing straight towards him. Obi-Wan had the brief impression of ice-like eyes and long beard. He stumbled back in an attempt to escape and fell into the water.

Obi-Wan gasped, shocked by the sudden partial dunking. There was nothing in front of him except the stone staircase that led back up to the house.

“Fuck,” he muttered, getting to his feet and sloshing back to the shore. His clothes were sopping wet up to his waist, his sleeves were soaked to the elbow, and his heart was beating hard, refusing to admit that he’d probably hallucinated the entire thing.

He stopped long enough to pour the water out of his boots and trudged back up the stairs. He wondered if Qui-Gon had finished reading threads—whatever the fuck that was.

Inside the house, in the main room between kitchen and dusty-console display, a pale-skinned girl was floating in the air. Obi-Wan stopped, stared, and then rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, the girl was still there, but she was transparent, see-through—like the angry old man outside had been. She was not the ghost of the Jedi upstairs, but a green-haired, green-eyed child who looked to be about fourteen Standard.

 _Look at me, Troy!_ the girl called, waving her hands in the air.

Obi-Wan followed the direction of her gaze, and found a boy standing a few steps away. He was transparent, too, like an image superimposed over the white stone wall. The boy had black hair and green eyes that marked him as a relation to the girl.

 _How are you doing that, Emma?_ the boy asked. Obi-Wan guessed him to be fifteen, sixteen at the oldest.

Emma grinned. _You just have to_ think _about it, like Father said_.

Troy closed his eyes, as if concentrating. _I can’t do it._

 _It’s the way of the Ashla to have an innate understanding of these things,_ Emma said in a prim voice, and then let loose a startled _meep_ as she fell to the floor.

Troy smirked at her after Emma displayed that she was unhurt. _And it’s the way of the Bogan to do it right the_ first _time,_ he retorted, and rose into the air as if he’d been born to flight.

Ashla? Bogan? Obi-Wan had no recollection of those words. Like most concepts at the moment, they were beyond him…but he didn’t think he would know those terms even if he regained all his memories after the dissociation.

 _Berk!_ Emma said, sticking her tongue out at the boy. This was an apparent affront; Troy flew at her, arms outstretched and a wide, rather cruel smile on his face. Emma squeaked again and took back to the air, until the two were chasing each other in circles around the room.

 _Entroija! Emmaltine!_ There was a new party to the hallucination. Obi-Wan thought he might be looking at a younger version of the old man. He had black hair, like the boy, but it was fully threaded with silver. _Dare I ask you both to act like the Rangers that the Council has named you?_

 _You mean you wish us to leave and scarcely be seen unless there is some home-based emergency, Father?_ Troy—Entroija—countered in a smooth voice.

 _I am realistic,_ the old man said. _I will settle for the two of you to cease chasing each other around the house. Help me in the garden, instead. The previous guardians left it in a terrible state._

 _I hate plants,_ Entroija grumbled. Emmaltine gave him a shove, prodding him until they were both on the floor and standing in front of their father.

 _But you are fond of eating them, so the garden needs to be tended,_ Emmaltine countered. _It’ll be fun. Nothing will be trying to eat us, unlike on our journey._

They vanished. Obi-Wan shook his head, wondering if he was done hallucinating for the time being, when he saw them again out of the corner of his eye. The three ghosts were standing in the console room, clustered around the table that Obi-Wan had been steadily avoiding. They hadn’t changed at all, but he could sense that time had passed.

 _What’s wrong, Father?_ Emmaltine asked. She seemed worried; her brother was scowling.

 _I am beginning to distrust our time-keeping devices,_ the old man said. He gestured at something Obi-Wan couldn’t see. _This speaks of months of our time passing._

 _Yes. And?_ Entroija’s scowl deepened with impatience.

 _I have been keeping track of passing days since our third month here,_ the old man replied. He pulled forth a red book, but didn’t open it. Obi-Wan wondered if it was still in the house somewhere. _According to my calculations, it has been over two years, not five months, since we arrived on Mortis._

Emmaltine’s eyes widened. _But how can that be? We haven’t aged—not even Entroija, and he’s been trying to convince the wellspring to make him taller._

Their father glared at the boy. Entroija rolled his eyes. _Time is weird on this planet, Father. Perhaps the day’s cycles are a lot shorter than we were told._

 _Perhaps,_ the old man said, and waved his free hand at nothing again. _But I will be keeping track with pen and paper, which often feels more honest than technology._

They disappeared from the console room and reappeared in the kitchen, the hallway, the room Obi-Wan stood in, the courtyard. Each time, the old man’s hair had lost more and more color, until hair, eyebrows, and beard were pure silver. The children hardly changed at all, though Entroija got taller and Emmaltine’s hair grew long enough to fall to her waist in a shining curtain of pale green.

The old man was alone when Obi-Wan saw him burning the red book, an air of resignation on his face. There was no way to tell how much time had passed, but it was obvious that something had gone wrong.

The children seemed unbothered by the passing days, months, years—however long it had been since their arrival on Mortis. The son grew to his full height, and was a lean, wary man with shuttered eyes who kept his hair buzzed short. The daughter started to look like a womanly wraith, given her tendency to emit a faint glow and float around as if gravity didn’t exist.

 _They’re not ghosts,_ Obi-Wan thought. _They can’t be—Ulic and Qui-Gon are dead, and in this place they’re just as real, just as alive, as I am._

The family spent a lot of time together, lounging in the parts of the house that Obi-Wan could see from his central vantage point. The farthest bedroom, the one he slept in, had been hers; their father had the room between, and Entroija slept in the room that Ulic now claimed.

Then Entroija looked up, wide-eyed and reacting to something Obi-Wan couldn’t hear. _A ship!_

 _Really?_ Emmaltine smiled, wide and delighted. _How lovely! I hope they have new books,_ she said, and floated after her brother when Entroija bolted for the doorway.

 _A ship,_ the old man repeated, but his brows were lowered as if weighted down. He finally rose to go after his children.

Obi-Wan bit his lip, hesitating. He hadn’t ever followed his hallucinations around, but in this case, curiosity demanded it.

He wasn’t all that surprised to discover that the shades of the two dead Jedi were the family’s visitors. The timing fit too well.

In life, the Jedi had been an impressive pair, regal in bearing, rather cold of expression. They were very different from Entroija, Emmaltine, and their father.

At first, Obi-Wan couldn’t hear the words being spoken. Emmaltine seemed surprised, then saddened. The old man’s brows sank lower, his eyes narrowing until they were pale blue, crystalline points. Entroija was furious, shouting, waving his arms while sparks danced at his fingertips.

The Jedi reacted to Entroija’s display with horror, followed by cool resolve that was reminiscent of the swords they held. — _a Darksider,_ the female Jedi said as sound came back to Obi-Wan’s ears. Her unsheathed blade was suddenly in her hand.

Entroija paused in obvious puzzlement. _What?_

 _The mandate of our Order is clear,_ the male Jedi said, his hand touching the hilt at his waist. _Darkness cannot be allowed to persist._

The old man shook his head. _He is Je’daii, as am I, as is his sister. There is no affrontery here other than the news you bring._

The female Jedi seemed to scoff, but her partner remained grave. _The way of the Je’daii, our forbearers, is long dead, Master Isuheel._

That stunned the family. _That cannot be,_ Emmaltine whispered. She was glowing again, her radiance visible despite the bright sunlight. Both Jedi seemed unnerved by her.

 _You are liars,_ Entroija hissed, raising his arm to point at the Jedi.

 _Je’hinal!_ the female Jedi shouted, raising her blade—the same green-haloed blade from upstairs. She charged Entroija, ready to cleave the man’s head from his shoulders.

Entroija dropped his hand in surprise, stumbling away from his attacker. The Jedi never reached him; she made a strange sound and fell onto the sand. Obi-Wan could feel her death as if he were truly witnessing the event, and it made his stomach clench in dread.

 _Father!_ Emmaltine gasped. The old man lowered his hand, his eyes glimmering as he regarded the other Jedi. _Entroija! Are you all right?_

 _I’m fine,_ Entroija whispered, his eyes still wide and shocked.

 _You should leave,_ Isuheel said in a soft voice.

The male Jedi shook his head, his expression set as he pulled forth his own blade. _You are as Darkened as the man you protect,_ he said. _It is my duty to—_

 _Go in the house, children,_ Isuheel said, interrupting the Jedi’s proclamation.

Entroija got up from the sand, drawing himself back up to his full height in an attempt to stare down the Jedi. _Father—_

 _Inside._   There was no arguing with the old Master’s tone. Entroija looked rebellious, but it only took a touch of his sister’s hand to convince him to leave.

They were no sooner out of sight than the Jedi dropped dead, as his partner had, without ever having the chance to attack. Isuheel bowed his head over the bodies.

_Now it is up to me and my children to maintain the balance. I curse both of you for what you have done._

“Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan whirled around so fast he nearly fell over. Qui-Gon was standing a few steps away, and seemed taken aback by Obi-Wan’s reaction. “Qui—” he started to say, and then his throat closed up. The word hung in the air, sounding correct and yet not right at all.

Some unknown emotion shone in Qui-Gon’s eyes, there and gone before Obi-Wan could figure out what he’d just witnessed. “Are you all right? Forgive the expression, but you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

 _Ghost?_ Obi-Wan turned his head. There was nothing but empty beach where the Jedi had fallen. “He killed them, didn’t he?”

“Who?” He didn’t think he was imagining the alarm in Qui-Gon’s voice.

“The old man. Isuheel. Whoever he was,” Obi-Wan said, and had to fight the urge to shiver.

“He did, yes.” Obi-Wan looked back at Qui-Gon. There was no sign of alarm; he only looked tired. “Come back inside.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“It could have been Isuheel,” Ulic said, after hearing Obi-Wan describe the hallucinations that had begun on the beach. “I mean, hell, I didn’t notice Entroija until it was too damned late. It wouldn’t surprise me if Isuheel’s ghost is lingering, too.” Ulic peered at Obi-Wan. “You feeling all right, Kid?”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Obi-Wan said, annoyed. “It just…they were just there.” He glanced at Qui-Gon, who looked unconvinced. “What did you see with that thread-reading thing?”

Qui-Gon seemed amused by Obi-Wan’s unflattering description; his smile lifted the aura of tiredness from his features. “That even Ulic’s estimation was wrong. The two Knights upstairs died twenty-five thousand years ago, give or take a few decades.” His smile faded. “The Jedi Order, at the time, was very, very young.”

“Why did they try to kill Entroija?” Obi-Wan wanted to know.

Ulic shrugged. “Because he was Darkened.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “But he hadn’t done anything.”

“To the Jedi Order, it is often enough to merely be Dark,” Qui-Gon said, mirroring Obi-Wan’s frown. “There is too much potential for harm to come to the Order, or to others, if a Fallen Jedi is allowed to live.”

For some reason, that set off Obi-Wan’s temper. “He had done _nothing._ He was innocent. She judged and sentenced him to death for having a _differing_ _point of view?_ ”

“Obi-Wan—”

“No.” Obi-Wan cut Qui-Gon off, furious without any real idea of why. “That’s stupid—no, it’s _wrong._ ”

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon repeated, his tone gentle. Obi-Wan clenched his jaw and stared at him, willing himself to hear what the other man was trying to say. “I did not say that I agreed with that viewpoint. I merely explained the Jedi Order’s standard approach to anyone they feel has fallen from the Light side of the Force.”

“You called me a Jedi,” Obi-Wan said to Ulic, feeling bitter. “Is that the kind of man that I am? Someone who would strike down an innocent because I didn’t like how they _felt?_ If that’s the case, your Order can go get fucked. I want no part of it.”

Ulic snickered, unoffended. “There are a lot of Jedi in your era who would consider you to be a terrible example of a Jedi Master, Kid, but you’re one of the best men I’ve ever met.”

“I didn’t train a fool, or a murderer,” Qui-Gon said in a quiet voice. “Had I thought you to be either, you would never have been Knighted.”

Obi-Wan whirled on him. “But you weren’t _there!”_ he shouted.

Qui-Gon looked as if he’d been struck. Obi-Wan had enough time to regret his words _,_ and then a spike of pain lanced him right between the eyes. He groaned and clamped his hand to his forehead.

“I thought you’d probably done something,” Ulic said. Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut; the sound of Ulic’s voice was jarring to his senses, and his stomach was trying to rebel.

“Did not,” Obi-Wan groused, standing up with his hand still glued to his head. He cracked his eyes open to look at Qui-Gon, who had risen as well. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what that meant.”

“I do,” Qui-Gon said, but Obi-Wan had no idea if that meant his apology was accepted or not. “Obi-Wan—”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Look, just…not now. I’m going to lie down,” he said, recognizing the migraine for what it had to be. “If you two find any more dead bodies, don’t tell me. I quite honestly do not want to know.”

He turned and eased himself away from the table. The lights in the house had come on as the sky darkened outside, and every single damned fixture had a rainbow halo surrounding the glass. “Don’t, Qui-Gon,” he heard Ulic say. “It’s not the best idea at the moment.”

Obi-Wan had no idea what that meant, but he was glad for the man’s interference. He was feeling overwhelmed again, migraine notwithstanding. He’d had enough of people, ghosts, hallucinations—all of it.

It was a relief when the sun went down, and his bedroom was fully dark. He kicked his boots off but stayed in his clothes. The idea of the sheet on his bare, oversensitized skin made him itch.

Obi-Wan slept in fits and starts, snapping awake at random intervals for no discernable reason. It took a long time to settle, but when he did, it was to fall into a vivid, disturbing dream.

He was lying on his back on a cold stone floor. His arms, legs, chest—everything was paining him. It felt like blistering heat was trying to flow through his veins instead of blood.

 _Poison,_ he thought, conscious recognition and remembrance filtering into the dream. _He poisoned me, something I missed._

He couldn’t move, either. He should have felt alarmed by that, but instead there was just bitter resignation, and frustration. The poison was keeping him from concentrating, else he would have dealt with that and the paralysis also.

He opened his eyes to find Qui-Gon straddling him. No, not right. He knew that wasn’t Qui-Gon, even aside from the darker clothes and black robe. The expression on his face was wrong, _wrong_.

This incident was getting added to Obi-Wan’s rather long list of reasons why he was going to make Sidious very, very dead. He couldn’t move, damn Shillanis’s entire existence, but he could make his displeasure felt in the Force: _Fuck you._

Sidious smiled, which always jarred him when the Sith used this particular illusion. “Careless Apprentice,” he said—in his own voice, thank all the blasted gods.

 _Not careless,_ Obi-Wan thought, irritated. He had safeguarded himself from Sidious’s damned toxins for at least a ten-day before this. _You just found yourself a new trick._

Sidious’s smile widened. The Force Illusion cracked enough that the glowing amber of his eyes seeped through. “I have found two new ‘tricks,’ as you call it. Would you like to see?”

_Do I get a choice?_

“Of course.” Sidious pretended to be surprised by the question. “Overcome the Shillanis, and I shall save my second trick for our next encounter.”

The idea of repeating this moment was terrifying enough that Obi-Wan closed his eyes and attempted, again, to do so. He struggled to find his way through the pain the new poison was causing. It was no damned use; he couldn’t concentrate long enough to burn out Shillanis.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, a signal of admitted defeat. Sidious hadn’t moved, except for one thing: He was holding a black strip of leather, allowing it to dangle from his right hand. A collar. A—

His blood ran cold at the sight of the inhibitor. _No._

“Oh, you recognize it.” Sidious was radiating twisted pleasure. “That saves me from tiresome explanations.”

 _No,_ Obi-Wan protested again, terror welling up and clogging his throat. Sidious ignored him, relentless, as he always was when he’d decided upon something he wanted. He leaned over Obi-Wan, his weight shifting painfully across Obi-Wan’s hips. The Sith’s fetid breath wafted over his face.

Sidious snapped the collar into place around Obi-Wan’s neck, and the Force went away.

When awareness came back, Obi-Wan was scraping the left side of his face raw against stone in a vain attempt to crawl through the wall. He was curled up in a corner of the room, shaking all over and gasping for breath that didn’t seem to want to come.

Obi-Wan forced himself to stop, to direct his attention outward. There was a line of flame, burning low, on the floor—all that was left of the inhibitor. Sidious was kneeling where Obi-Wan had been, illusion gone. Blood was dripping from a gash in his cheek.

 _Panic attack,_ Obi-Wan realized. He’d had a full-on blackout panic attack.

Fuck. He had a terrible feeling that Rattatak was about to come back and bite him in the worst possible way.

Sidious was studying him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Isn’t that interesting,” he said. The words were soft, but still fell like clattering stones.

Obi-Wan jerked himself awake, heart hammering in his chest. He’d mirrored the dream; he was crouched in a corner of the bedroom, face pressed against the stone. The sun has risen high enough to shine through the window and paint the floor with light.

There was no gradual fade from the dissociation. It was just gone, as if he’d never had the problem at all.

“Oh, fuck.” The words came out on a bubble of stressed laughter. “That was the worst damned trigger ever.”

Obi-Wan stayed where he’d awoken until his breathing was more or less under control. The last six days were stark in his memory. It was everything else, everything since Zan Arbor’s gift of Fire, that remained hazy. He could concentrate and the memories would become clear, but for the moment, it was enough to sit and just _be._

 _Just be,_ he thought, hearing the last two words again in Qui-Gon’s voice. That memory was clear enough. _Just be in this moment with me._

The thought helped clear away the rest of the dream-induced panic. He’d spent the last six days in his Master’s company—not his Lifemate’s. Why there was a difference, he didn’t know, but…

Obi-Wan sat bolt upright, casting his senses out in a wide net. It was an easy feat to accomplish near a wellspring, and it wasn’t long before he was aware of the entirety of Mortis.

_Ah. Well, then._

Obi-Wan got up, left the bedroom, and strode down the hall. It felt like the roar of the ocean was sounding in his ears.

Ulic saw him coming. The smile of greeting on his lips died a swift death. “Oh, shit,” he said, just before Obi-Wan gestured with his hand in a curt, sweeping motion.

It was far more satisfying than it should have been to realize that his aim was off. Ulic missed the door entirely and was blown through the exterior wall that led into the courtyard. His exit left a gaping hole, and cracks formed and ran up the wall nearly to the ceiling.

 _“Force._ Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan held up his right hand, single finger extended: _Wait._ He had to settle a far more immediate, pressing issue with a four-thousand-year-old Jedi.

He stalked his way outside, treading the steps down to the beach so quickly he didn’t feel the stone under his bare feet. Ulic was getting to his knees, shaking his head as if to clear it. Sand and mortar dust coated his hair and clothing.

“Where?” Obi-Wan’s tone was almost pleasant.

“What the fuck, Kid?” Ulic asked, looking up at him. Blood mingled with the dust on his face.

His temper snapped. “Where are they?” he yelled.

Ulic seemed taken aback by the question, struggling to get to his feet. “Obi-Wan—”

“I AM THE ONLY LIVING BEING ON THIS PLANET, ULIC!” Obi-Wan shouted, the words tearing his throat. His eyes were burning, his vision blurring. It felt like his core had been hollowed out, and he was trying not to cave in on himself.

Realization dawned on Ulic’s face. “Oh! Dammit—it’s not what you think. Obi-Wan, _they’re fine._ ”

Obi-Wan felt a flicker of desperation. “Then where are they?” He meant it to be another shout, but his voice emerged hoarse and broken. He grabbed ahold of Ulic’s shirt with both hands, the soft blue material clenched in his fists. “Where?”

Ulic put his hands over Obi-Wan’s. It made him realize that his fingers were shock-cold compared to the spirit’s warm flesh. “Three weeks from now.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth fell open. “I—what?”

“Three weeks from now,” Ulic repeated patiently. Obi-Wan heard rapid boot steps on stone, signifying Qui-Gon’s arrival.

“What the _hell_ ,” Qui-Gon said, sounding alarmed and out of breath.

“It’s okay, Jinn,” Ulic told him, and then had to catch Obi-Wan when his knees gave out from beneath him. With the impetus of horrified anger draining out of him, the adrenaline that kept him upright was fading, too. He could feel the warmth of blood on his upper lip again; his head was ringing, it hurt so damned badly. “It’s okay. This is my fault.”

“Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan swallowed against the raw feeling in his throat, but his voice was still broken when he spoke. “You dragged me back in time, and didn’t think to mention that to me?”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d believe me.” Ulic grimaced, as if realizing that it was a weak excuse even as he said the words.

“Ulic.” Obi-Wan had to take a steadying breath. “I am on an island with my dead Master. You are a four-thousand-year-old dead ex-Sith Jedi _. There are twenty-five-thousand-year-old_ _dead bodies upstairs._ Where does the lack of belief come in?”

Ulic grinned apologetically. “Look, I’m bad at planning. I’m much more like your Skywalker.”

“Anakin’s method of planning is to stab everything and sort it out later,” Obi-Wan pointed out as Ulic helped him to stand back up. The ground tilted alarmingly, but he was used to maintaining his equilibrium in worse conditions than _this._

“It’s a tried-and-true method of problem-solving,” Ulic said. “Hell, it worked on you.”

Obi-Wan let out a shaky laugh. “Did it?”

“Don’t remember that part, huh?” Ulic asked.

“No.” Obi-Wan shook his head. “Do I want to?”

“Probably not,” Qui-Gon answered, which finally prompted Obi-Wan to turn around and deal with the other half of his odd set of guardians.

Qui-Gon regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “You know, you could have just asked him. I don’t think the building needed another hole in it.”

“It’s…it’s been a weird year,” Obi-Wan said. He felt lightheaded for reasons that had nothing to do with his damned shaky health. “Hello, Master.”

There was a flicker of surprise in Qui-Gon’s eyes, and then he smiled. “Hello, Obi-Wan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for remembered non-con. I'd say 'not sexual non-con' but that's not quite right, either.


End file.
